


behind closed doors

by talionprinciple (Triskai)



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice (Video Game)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Other, awkward meetings with your doctor, fondling your enemy's severed arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 06:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18911311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triskai/pseuds/talionprinciple
Summary: The flesh of an immortal does not decay, though it may be severed from his body.But what kind of person would keep such a gruesome relic?





	behind closed doors

**Author's Note:**

> please mind the tags. it’s exactly what it says on the tin.  
> i think of genichiro as someone who feels constantly inadequate, struggling to escape his grandfather’s shadow. he denies himself a lot of things in the hopes that it will make him disciplined, stronger, unique. but because he denies himself even small pleasures he ends up with extreme hedonistic urges, culminating in some bizarre private behaviors. this is about that.

Lord Genichiro:

On your request, the shinobi’s arm has been retrieved. Given the intervening weeks, it is remarkably well-preserved, and even continues to bleed, but experiments with the blood have been fruitless. Despite repeated attempts I have not found a way to extract the Heir’s resurrective power from the blood, and I doubt it is even possible. The master grows impatient and wishes to pursue different avenues of research. Should you give your blessing, we will relinquish the arm into your care.

I await your decision.

Doujun

 

The arm is delivered early in the morning, just before sunrise. Doujun himself shows up, blanketed by an ever-present scent of sickly-sweet chemicals and covered head to toe in bloody rags. The morbid thing he carries is wrapped in much the same.

“Ah, Lord Genichiro.” He sounds suspiciously cheerful. “I don’t suppose you would let me in for a moment? I have some good news.”

Genichiro hesitates. He’s not dressed to receive visitors, currently clad only in a soft dark blue yukata. But it would be unacceptably rude to turn Doujun away after Genichiro invited him himself – and besides, the surgeon is in no position to comment on his lack of decorum. Without Genichiro’s protection, Doujun would have been cast out from Ashina long ago for his heretical studies.

The smile in Doujun’s eyes fades as Genichiro’s silence drags on for a moment too long.

“Perhaps I should come back another time, my lord?”

“No,” Genichiro says hastily, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Doujun inclines his head respectfully and enters. Genichiro shuts the door behind him. The surgeon seems more at ease in Genichiro’s quarters than standing on his threshold. Genichiro can’t help but think it’s because of the dimness. In the pre-dawn darkness, most of Genichiro’s spacious bedroom is cast in shadow, save for the light of a few scattered candles. Genichiro has heard rumors that Doujun spends so much time underground, living by candlelight, that his eyes have adapted to the darkness and can no longer bear the sun. Superstitious ramblings from soldiers who find the surgeon’s manner off-putting, of course. But Genichiro could easily believe it. Doujun only ever visits to bring him reports in the early morning or late evening, when the sun is weak or out of sight. He gets the impression that Doujun would keep even more eccentric hours if etiquette allowed him to.

And it’s true that his manner is somewhat off-putting. 

“Please, sit.” Genichiro gestures to a low table. He waits for Doujun to seat himself on one of the cushions before settling down on the opposite side. He doesn’t offer anything, not even tea – the surgeon always refuses. Repeated exposure has inured Genichiro to most of the surgeon’s odd behaviors, including this one. 

“What news do you bring?”

“Ah. It has to do with this arm, actually.” Doujun places said arm onto the table. “Although it was ultimately useless in my experiments, it did give me an interesting idea. A way to refine the Rejuvenating Sediment, so that it can be safely consumed.”

“…Is that so.” Genichiro squints at the arm, as if he might be able to see through the thick cloth wrappings if he looks hard enough. Reports said the thing was still bleeding when it was retrieved from the silvergrass field, but there were no descriptions of its appearance. Is it rotting and discolored? Or has it been pristinely preserved by the power of the Dragon’s Heritage? “Then, you found a way to counteract the side effects?”

“In a way. The process still requires some refinement, I’m afraid. My subjects that received the Rejuvenating Waters show markedly less mental degradation, but I have been treating them with relatively low doses. The concentration of the Waters needed to survive a mortal blow is… well.”

Genichiro has seen the madness brought on by the Rejuvenating Waters firsthand. Though the Waters grant great resilience of the flesh, they erode the mind, turning men into little more than ravening beasts. When he’d first begun his search for a way to save Ashina, he’d discarded the Waters quickly after seeing its effects. But Doujun had managed to convince him that it could be refined. The man is the last of Dogen’s apprentices, the only one who had been involved in the old doctor’s research into the Waters’ healing properties. If anybody could find a way to refine the Waters, it would be him.

After a moment, Doujun speaks again.

“Master Dousaku believes that we are close to a breakthrough. But such things cannot be rushed, my lord. If Ashina were to lose you to madness, it would be a terrible blow.”

Doujun has a clever way of speaking that makes him often sound mocking. It’s common to academics, Genichiro thinks – Dogen, when he was alive, often spoke in such a way – but nonetheless Genichiro can’t help but suspect sarcasm.

“Yes, I understand. But time grows short. The Ministry has begun sending spies, they are preparing for an assault. For the sake of Ashina,” Genichiro says pointedly, “we must have that breakthrough soon.”

“For Ashina,” Doujun agrees, bowing his head low. 

The first rays of sunlight begin to filter over the mountaintops, producing a warm glow outside Genichiro’s window that makes Doujun frown.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I must return to my work. It’s unwise to leave my subjects unattended for long.”

“Of course.” Genichiro dismisses him, perhaps a tad eagerly, letting the surgeon escape back to his subterranean facilities. 

Which leaves Genichiro alone with the shinobi’s arm.

He’s tempted to leave it wrapped up on a shelf somewhere, to be forgotten along with all the other dead ends he’d found on his path to immortality. By now, he’s collected a veritable mountain of esoteric texts, old journals from the late Lord Takeru, and even one of the Mortal Blades, though he dares not draw it from its sheath. An undying arm would be a fitting addition. But he doesn’t relish the thought of it bleeding, or worse rotting, in some corner of his room. So he lays it down on the table and unwraps it.

Doujun must have removed the sleeves and gloves at some point because what lies beneath the bandages is bare flesh. Genichiro touches it by accident – the cloth wrapping it is less layered than he thought – and the warmth of the skin sends him reeling. It feels like living flesh – it _is_ living flesh. It is more than undying; it is alive. 

He recoils, half-expecting the thing to start moving. But it simply sits there, totally still, devoid even of a pulse. Before his eyes, blood begins to well up at the end of the arm, dripping sluggishly down the torn flesh. To think, the power of the Dragon’s Heritage is such that even a severed arm can continue to produce warmth and blood long after being separated from its body.

He watches it ooze blood onto his table with dismay. He’ll have to ask the servants to supply him with rags.

 

As the days pass, he falls into a peculiar routine.

Every morning when he wakes, he changes the rags around the arm’s bloody stump. The simplicity of the task is somehow soothing. No Interior Ministry, no looming threat of war fills his mind during those scant few minutes. Just the physical motions. Unwind the stained, tacky cloth. Clean the stump with a damp rag. Bandage it again. The amount of blood produced is constant, as is the temperature of the flesh when Genichiro’s fingers press against it. Amidst the endless shifting plans of war, the shinobi’s arm is as a rock in a stream.

Somewhere along the way he begins to look forward to the daily ministrations. The heat of the undying flesh, once eerie, now provides a shameful comfort. The realization comes all at once one day – he’s developed an affection for it, like one would a pet. He even begins to ascribe emotions to it. Patience, as he carefully cleans away the crusted blood around its severed end. Gratitude. As if some piece of meat, no matter how mystical, could appreciate what he’s doing for it.

It occurs to him first to feel shame. He begins to avoid touching it as much as possible, even wearing gloves during his morning ritual. But the impartiality of the gloves makes him bold in his handling. For the first time he dares to touch the hand, turning it on the wrist, bending back the fingers. They are pliable, their joints move easily and without resistance. The meat of the palm gives readily under his thumb. When he grips it hard, the flesh turns white, then red, all ruddy with the flush of healthful life. 

This must be what it’s like to touch the man in the flesh.

The thought is like a slap in the face. So far he’s managed to think of the arm as merely a hunk of flesh, but now the recollection of the shinobi comes to him vividly. Acknowledging that the arm is a part of _him_ stirs up desires better left buried. That night, when Genichiro had cut off his arm, was the closest he’d ever been to the man. But Genichiro recalls meeting him several times before. The man was often at the Divine Heir’s side at public occasions, like the child’s very own shadow. He always wore a stern, tight-lipped expression that made him look older than he was—and he never smiled. Genichiro would be lying if he said he didn’t find the shinobi attractive; he was handsome in a cruel way, like a well-crafted sword.

He would be disgusted to learn what Genichiro is doing right now.

Well—good. Genichiro hardly needs the approval of a nameless mongrel, let alone one that would condemn Ashina to her death. 

Seized by a sudden impulse, he strips off his gloves and takes up the arm in his bare hands. If he shuts his eyes, it’s easy to make believe. He grips the hand in his own, daring to slot his fingers between its limp ones. Were he to take the shinobi’s hand suddenly, perhaps it would be just like this. Yes, the fingers would be slack with surprise. Of course, that’s where the fantasy ends. The shinobi is no blushing maiden; a man like that would never tolerate being handled this way. But with the arm Genichiro can go further, pressing his nose to its wrist and breathing in the clean smell of the skin there. Would the scent be different, he wonders, elsewhere on the body—

Blood drips from the severed end and onto Genichiro’s arm, startling him out of his fantasy. He flushes hot, angry in a way he can’t define. It’s unforgivable for him to desire his enemy so, and even worse now that he’s acted upon it. Yet he still wants more. There’s a greedy part of him that desires everything he could never have as Isshin’s grandson, a part that he’s had to starve for decades to perfect himself, to gain even the slightest chance of living up to his grandfather’s legacy.

Genichiro takes a breath, and then another. His anger drains out like pus from a boil. He cleans himself carefully, wiping away all trace of the shinobi’s blood. Then he attends to the arm as usual and wraps it again. He will put this behind him, as he must. It was a moment of weakness. That’s all.

 

But as the days go on, Genichiro cannot keep the arm out of his thoughts – or the shinobi it belongs to.

He puts the gloves back on, but they’re useless. He imagines the warmth of the arm against his fingers even through the thick material. When he lifts the arm up to undo its wrappings he’s struck by the solid weight of it, the muscle and sinew and bone that marks it as a part of a living thing. He knows now that he is obsessed, but he doesn’t know why. The lack of understanding itches like a mosquito’s bite. If it were just carnal desire, that would be simple enough. There is no shortage of women, or discreet men, who might be willing to assist him. But there’s something about the arm, and the raw open wound, and the blood.

What a wretched, disgusting fascination.

He pauses in his morning ritual, holding the bare arm. He drags his gloved thumb slowly across the severed end, watching the blood soak into the thick material. Considering it. There’s nobody watching, so. What’s the harm? If he just indulges these – these urges, just for a little while, perhaps he will be satisfied. He can finally have some peace.

Quickly, like he might be reprimanded for it at any moment, he touches the pointer finger to his lips. The strangeness of the sensation sends a frisson of heat down his spine. When he lets his eyes close he can almost imagine the shinobi is attached to the other end, close enough that Genichiro can feel the warmth of his body. He takes the finger into his mouth, eyes still closed, and maps out the callused skin with his tongue. The rough, peeling scars of places nicked by shuriken. The hard edge of an overgrown nail. It tastes like dust. He bites down before he really understands what he’s doing and a sudden copper taste floods his mouth—blood, the blood of an immortal, one blessed with the oath of the Dragon’s Heritage. He laps at the wound, overtaken by a strange hunger. Where does the power hide, where is it stored? From where can he wrench it loose of its moorings and make it his own? Could he take immortality from this oozing redness, if only he knew how? Consume and make it a part of him, as surely as he consumes the blood that contains it?

…The stuff is sweet.

Something about it reminds him of persimmons.

Wrong, this is all wrong. He shouldn’t enjoy this. Even if it is necessary, an act like this should be abhorred. Something has spoiled in his soul, or he contained the rot all this time, festering within and waiting to make itself known. He pulls himself off the arm, nearly dropping it in his haste. The sight of his saliva glistening on the finger is repulsive. But the red trickling out of the broken skin is enticing, and the thought of tearing the wound open wider gives him a heady rush like sex or battle.

He wonders if he has become something less than human in his pursuit of power. It’s clear now that he cannot be trusted with the shinobi’s arm; he will send someone to take it away, or he will throw it into the moat himself.

He wraps the arm with uncharacteristic haste and begins preparing for his day. But just as he’s dressing, there’s a knock on his door. With a curse, Genichiro abandons the work of buckling on his greaves and opens the door, thrown so off-kilter by the events of the morning that he doesn’t realize he’s still wearing his bloodied gloves until it’s too late.

“My lord,” Doujun greets him, bowing politely. His gaze goes to Genichiro’s half-dressed state, to his bloodstained gloves, and then to the arm on the table behind him. Those mismatched eyes reveal nothing, but Genichiro nonetheless feels like a rabbit caught in a snare.

“Doujun,” Genichiro answers in kind, trying to sound unruffled. “Have you something to report?”

“Yes, but…” Doujun hesitates, glancing again at the arm. He seems to make up his mind after a moment, saying, “I notice you still have the arm. I thought you might have gotten rid of it by now.”

Genichiro tenses, feeling the weight of the surgeon’s scrutiny. “…Why?”

Doujun shrugs. “It’s rather troublesome to look after. I’m certain you have much more pressing matters to attend to. Or… have you found a use for it?”

“No, I…” Genichiro trails off, caught utterly of guard. A use for it – hah. He supposes he has found a use for it, but certainly not one he will ever admit to.

“I meant to get rid of it, as you said. It is rather troublesome,” he grits out at last. “I was just about to send a servant to take it—let’s not discuss this further.”

“As you say, my lord.”

Is that a hint of amusement in the man’s eyes? Unbelievable.

“As for my report…”

Genichiro listens to Doujun talk with only half an ear, inwardly seething. The arm has done enough harm to him in private; now it has humiliated him publicly as well. He can’t get rid of it fast enough. Perhaps throwing it into the moat is not enough. He can’t bear the thought of it washing up somewhere, or floating on its surface for all to see. He’ll lock it away. …But the thing bleeds. Then, he’ll have a servant take care of it, somewhere out of sight. And he’ll put it out of his mind for good this time.

He can’t let himself become further infatuated with the thing. Not least because it is the flesh of the Divine Heir’s shinobi. If he must face the man again in battle, he must not falter. Hesitation means defeat, and he will not be defeated.

He won’t allow it.

**Author's Note:**

> wolf, i found something in lord genichiro's room...


End file.
